“And David took the head of the Philistine and brought it to Jerusalem.”
down the sparse dust routes,
each step tremulous, heavy,
sling fixed to his waist,
leaving the cascade of blood
to dry along the pathway,
he slowly craned his neck
upward, remembered the
pious breaths that came from
counting every star,
glare of moonbeams upon
a sullen flock, fingers matted
with wool and grease, forearms
scarred from claw, from
tooth, flatbread wrapped taut
in satchels as the youngest was
instructed to do, waiting out
the clatter of swords and
slashing of necks. his own face
is now solemn, eyes furtive,
mouth pursed, nimble fingers
skirting the periphery of
a dislodged head,
a crater square between
the eyes, crust just beginning
to harden. his free thumb
caresses the smoothness
of a stone. heaving the
goliath crown on his
untarnished frame, he felt
the jump of blood, prayed
for the peace that would
come from a reign of heavenly beams.
he remembered the secret
chord, let it whistle through
his mind, let it whistle as
he minded the sheep and
gripped the staff, fled to the
caves and tore a cloak, felt
the oil trickle down his
temples. the chord always
whistling out on the fields
soaked through in crimson,
forgetting how he had not
sought the blood of the giant,
planting his wretched general
on the frontlines all for a taste
of the wife who could
be his. distance pares the supple
conscience. read his songs, his
lyrics. how he begs, admits
his wrong, yearns for the
lightness of a glance, for
the sight of a face. the secret
chord throbbing through his
mind as he summons his
craftsmen, has them draw
up his schema, wrests and
waits for the presence that
makes a divine burden
easier. his son would finish
the house. his grandson would
rest on a tree. holy presence
spilling out like water.
a blazing crown
passed from head to head.